There was a general gasp, and a low rumble broke out
as all eyes fell on the camel. Betty shrank away
from him quickly, her tawny eyes giving out sparks
of fury.

“Is you Mistah Pa’khurst, you camel?”

Perry made no answer. The crowd pressed up closer
and stared at him as he stood frozen rigid with embarrassment,
his cardboard face still hungry and sardonic, regarding
the ominous Jumbo.

“You-all bettah speak up!” said Jumbo
slowly, “this yeah’s a mighty serous mattah.
Outside mah duties at this club ah happens to be a
sho-nuff minister in the Firs’ Cullud Baptis’
Church. It done look to me as though you-all
is gone an’ got married.”

V

The scene that followed will go down forever in the
annals of the Tallyho Club. Stout matrons fainted,
strong men swore, wild-eyed debutantes babbled in
lightning groups instantly formed and instantly dissolved,
and a great buzz of chatter, virulent yet oddly subdued,
hummed through the chaotic ballroom. Feverish
youths swore they would kill Perry or Jumbo or themselves
or someone and the Baptis’ preacheh was besieged
by a tempestuous covey of clamorous amateur lawyers,
asking questions, making threats, demanding precedents,
ordering the bonds annulled, and especially trying
to ferret out any hint or suspicion of prearrangement
in what had occurred.

On the corner Mrs. Townsend was crying softly on the
shoulder of Mr. Howard Tate, who was trying vainly
to comfort her; they were exchanging “all my
fault’s” volubly and voluminously.
Outside on a snow covered walk Mr. Cyrus Medill, the
Aluminum Man, was being paced slowly up and down between
two brawny charioteers, giving vent now to a grunt,
now to a string of unrepeatables, now to wild pleadings
that they’d just let him get at Jumbo. He
was facetiously attired for the evening as a wild
man of Borneo, and the most exacting stage manager
after one look at his face would have acknowledged
that any improvement in casting the part would have
been quite impossible.